


Someone holds her, safe and warm

by vampyrekat



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: F/M, Waltzing, bear with me while we sort out the tagging for this fandom, because i have no shame, my tags are all so bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 11:37:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11252355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampyrekat/pseuds/vampyrekat
Summary: THIS HAS BEEN ADAPTED TO BE CHAPTER 5 OF MY OTHER WORK. I'm leaving it here in case you want to read the original, but I'd suggest Crossing the Nevsky Prospekt over this one.“Gleb,” she said, voice dropping down, keeping their conversation just between the two of them.“Paris is no place,” he returned, voice tight, “for a good and loyal Russian.”Anya glanced up, met his eyes, and tried not to shake. “And yet, here we both are.”A remix of the confrontation and the ballet scene, set at a masquerade at the Neva Club.





	Someone holds her, safe and warm

**Author's Note:**

> One note: in my version of things, Gleb is one of the soldiers who pursues them onto the train, and he and Anya see each other before she jumps. Minor change, but it might throw you off.

There was only so much one could prepare for. By the time they’d reached Paris, Anya could bow, could recite the entire family tree of the woman she hoped she was, and could waltz better than Vlad or Dmitry. She was poised, groomed, ready to face the Dowager Empress, her own doubts about herself tucked safely away. When she met the Empress, she’d know.  
  
The unforeseen flaw was that the empress had stopped seeing young women. Unless they could get the Empress alone, they were out of luck. Lily had been unable to sway her, but had reluctantly told Vlad that there was a masked ball at the Neva Club, and the Empress ‘might make an appearance, although with her, who knows?’ Without anything more substantial to go off, Vlad had managed three invitations for them.  
  
“How do I look?” she asked doubtfully, spinning in the dress. It was white with silver accents, soft fabric draped around her legs, and she fidgeted, the ghost of hoop skirts making the fabric even more uncomfortable..  
  
“You look the part, my dear,” Vlad offered. Dmitry looked almost pained, and Anya narrowed her eyes at him.  
  
“Dmitry?”  
  
His nose wrinkled. “You do look … regal.” She met his gaze, trying to puzzle out what had him in a mood tonight. Dmitry had been brooding ever since they’d reached Paris, and she had yet to figure out why.  
  
“Finishing touches!” Vlad interrupted gaily, handing each of them a mask. Dmitri’s was a simple black domino, to match his suit. Anya’s was a white with silver accents, matching the simple hair clips Vlad had borrowed from Lily. She tied it on and Vlad nodded approvingly.  
  
“You look like royalty. That’ll be enough to get her to look at you.”  
  
“I hope so,” she muttered.  
  
  
  
The Neva Club was a little shabby around the edges, run down in the same way the people who frequented it were. Tonight, though, it was dressed up in borrowed finery, the men and women in suits and gowns, eyes peeking out from behind masks in every color of the rainbow.  
  
“We could have waited at the hotel,” Dmitry complained, while Anya looked around, starstruck. Vlad sighed. “If there’s any chance of meeting the Dowager, we need to take it.”  
  
“It’s so lovely,” Anya offered, looking around. Beside the older women’s effortless grace, she felt very under dressed and under prepared. Grand Duchess Anastasia or no, she’d been Anya for a decade. Anya had slept under bridges and swept streets and washed dishes. Anya's hands were rough with work and cold; her face was windblown. She’d foregone the blush - her cheeks were too red on their own - but Vlad had conned her into wearing lipstick. She felt too young and out of place, like the half-remembered eleven year old who’d stolen champagne from the party after the theater; a child playing dress up at a party of adults. She was so lost in her thoughts that she only caught the tail end of what had to be Dmitry’s fiftieth rant about Russian nobility since they’d arrived in Paris. Vlad rolled his eyes expressively and caught Dmitry’s hand as well as Anya’s, joining them firmly. “Dance, you two. Keep yourselves busy until the Dowager arrives. God knows the invitations were hard to get.”  
  
Dmitry subsided into grumbling as he pulled Anya towards the floor. She repressed the laughter she felt threatening to bubble out. Dmitry was just so cross all the time, and after what he’d put her through in St. Petersburg, she wasn’t above enjoying his discomfort. He attempted to swing her into the position for a waltz, and only Anya’s grace and practice kept her from running into him. His hold was uncomfortably rigid, and when he started it was with the stiff-legged stride of someone who’d learned to waltz but never learned to dance. Anya kept her face turned away, the way she’d learned, but also to hide the smile she couldn’t control. He was being ridiculous.  
  
Dmitry knew better than to try any lifts, at least. He kept both their feet firmly on the floor, his longer strides curbed in deference to her shorter legs. He only stepped on her a few times, which Anya noted, was an improvement from the few disastrous lessons before Vlad had taken over her training in dance. Still, she was certainly setting the tempo for both of them, her hands pressing him into the right rhythm where they rested on his shoulder and in his left hand. He didn’t seem to mind too much, happy to have the necessary direction.  
  
The end of the music earned Dmitry her full smile and a deep curtsy. “Merci,” she offered, batting her eyelashes before returning to a standing position. She couldn’t quite read his expression behind the simple black mask. He opened his mouth to reply, but one of the royals who Anya felt a hazy sense of deja vu about tapped her on the shoulder.  
  
“Would the mademoiselle care to dance?”  
  
She nearly giggled, “Oui, monsieur.” And they were off, in a series of spins and twirls that had her grinning like a madwoman. She could almost touch the woman she was in the past, the one who’d loved to dance and loved the parties her family let her attend. And her brother had danced so charmingly, before he’d tripped, and then the monk had had to fix his bleeding --  
  
She stumbled away, the dance completed, mumbling an apology and leaning against the wall, her eyes closed behind the silver mask. Her brother had been so delicate, and yet so soft and full of life -  
  
She shook her head, straightened her shoulders and stepped towards the fray again. She was not going to lose herself to memories, not here, not now. She just had to find Vlad or Dmitry - and there went Vlad, waltzing with Lily, which ruled him out - so Dmitry, and then everything would be fine.  
  
One of the men caught her hand, spun her into place, and in a moment she was waltzing again. She glanced up, saw only a flash of his black mask - a domino mask that came down to cover the better part of his cheeks - before giving him a nervous smile and attempting to reclaim her hand.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she said gently, “I’m looking for my friend.”  
  
“Always in a hurry,” he said, voice low and only half-amused, and Anya froze, stumbling. He pulled her through the spin, and she recognized the self-deprecating smile that tugged his lips up, the wry humor that infused his eyes.  
  
“Gleb,” she said, voice dropping down, keeping their conversation just between the two of them.  
  
“Paris is no place,” he returned, voice tight, “for a good and loyal Russian.”  
  
Anya glanced up, met his eyes, and tried not to shake. “And yet, here we both are.”  
  
His jaw tightened, and his stride lengthened slightly as they spun, the motion - or his irritation - making him hold her tighter. “I was sent here, Anya. I think you know why.”  
  
“I saw you the night we jumped from the train,” she said simply, trying to stand tall in his arms, follow his motion. She’d tripped once; she wouldn’t allow him the satisfaction of seeing her falter again. Her strides matched his - he wasn’t as tall as Dmitry, not as gangly, and Gleb clearly knew how to waltz. “You didn’t draw a weapon.”  
  
He faltered for a fraction of a second, and she knew it bothered him, his inability to end the threat she posed. “And have you fall?” He laughed, even though he sounded like he was trying to convince himself. “My orders are to bring the false Anastasia back.” To be punished, hung unspoken between them.  
  
“And the real Anastasia?” she asked fiercely. He gritted his teeth, pulled her closer as they set off on a dizzying set of spins, his eyes not meeting hers as he focused on where they were going. Anya followed him with the steps of an expert, assured that she knew at least as much as he did on this front.  
  
When they settled into a less terrifying pace, he ignored her question, instead smiling to try and dispel the tension. “You look beautiful, Anya.” She didn’t miss the slight emphasis on her name, but she smiled back. The court had always used words as weapons.  
  
“Seeing you out of uniform is a shock,” she admitted. And it was: the three-piece suit flattered him, but between that and the mask, it was no wonder she’d missed him before. “How did you talk your way in?”  
  
He cringed slightly, spinning her within the circle of his right arm. “Royalty is not hard to fool.”  
  
She arched an eyebrow, realized it was lost behind her mask. “I knew you at first glance.”  
  
“You are not like them,” he said fiercely, clutching her closer to his body. Anya gasped, but his eyes were intense on hers, his words sharp. “You worked for what you have. You didn’t steal it all from the people - people like us, Anya.”  
  
She felt like there was no air. The black mask made his dark eyes seem brighter, almost amber as they stared into hers, the weight of his convictions settled around him like a cloak, almost sweeping her into it. What did she want in Paris? The chance to join the fat, lazy royals around her who were simply waiting to die? She was a worker, a doer, and the idea chafed at her. Gleb’s voice was a lifeline - he was right, but what could he expect her to do? Go back to Russia?  
  
“It doesn’t matter, Gleb.” She had relaxed into his arms, and she drew herself up again. “I can’t go back.”  
  
“No,” he said quietly. The music had stopped, hadn’t it? And yet he didn’t let let go, his right hand falling to her waist as his left moved to her jaw. “We can’t. But still … there’s other paths, Anya.”  
  
“I don’t know what you mean,” she murmured, her voice shaking. His thumb stroked across her jaw lightly, and she shuddered, everything too immediate to handle.  
“You’re shivering,” he said softly. Gleb’s eyes were incomprehensible, but his hand didn’t stop, stroking her jawline softly. She wasn’t sure if he knew what he was doing any more than she did, especially as he continued, “You have more options than you think. To throw it all away on a gamble - that you _might_ be who your conmen taught you to be -”

“To be who I am, Gleb.” Her voice was steady only through great effort. “I am the Grand Duchess. I remember.”

“You _think_ you remember,” he corrected, and it was her worst fears said aloud. She snatched his hand away from her face, but his right hand remained at her waist, and he wrapped the right around hers. “Your conmen taught you to remember. I can’t go back to Leningrad without you, one way or another.”

“That’s not my problem,” she snapped, and he sighed, his hand tightening on hers, the same way it had in his office so long ago, when he’d first told her the danger of calling herself Anastasia. “I can’t go back.”

“I don’t want to go back to Leningrad with you,” he confessed quietly, and if they’d still been moving, Anya would have stumbled.

“You  -” she started, stopped, narrowed her eyes. Gleb’s smile was bitter now. “You love Russia.”

“I do,” he said simply. His hands fell away from her, and her skin felt too cold in their wake, and she had the sense of drowning in his eyes again. “Anya - there’s other options.”

For a brief moment, Anya could see what he offered. The two of them, train tickets out of Paris, presumed dead with the future ahead of them - and a massive question where her history was, never to be answered.

“ _Anya._ Dmitry said he lost you -” Vlad’s voice was breathless as he skidded to a stop before the pair, eyes flickering between them. “- should I go?”

“No,” Anya replied firmly, eyes not leaving Gleb’s. “We’re done here.”

“Then it’s time,” Vlad said brightly, leading the way to where Anya knew the Dowager Empress waited. Anya made to follow, and Gleb caught her wrist.

" _Anya -_ "

“Let go, Gleb.”

She didn’t turn, but she could almost hear when his mouth snapped shut as his hand fell from her wrist. He couldn’t sway her and they both knew it. His almost-offer wasn’t enough to change her mind, not with her past so close at hand - and so she walked towards her future, and Gleb was left to stand among the rest of the Russians she left behind.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to message me on [tumblr](http://vampyrekatwrites.tumblr.com/)!


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